“Maybe,” I hedge, shifting my weight as the injury on my calf begins to burn. The movement causes the pain in my arm to flare up.
Would it be wise to reveal how little I know?
Begbie must read my expression because he says, “If you’re not going to cooperate, Serenity, then we’ll force the answers out of you.”
Serenity must be my name.
“That I’m well aware of,” I say.
My reflection catches my attention once more, and I shift my eyes away from Begbie. Aside from the bruises that cover my face, and I have a deep scar that runs from the corner of my eye down my cheek.
I look … sinister. And hardened. Oddly enough, that gives me courage.
Begbie tries again. “What do you believe you’re worth to the king?”
“I don’t know.”
The Lieutenant leans back in his seat and studies me. “Alright,” he finally drawls, coming to some sort of decision, “what locations in the WUN do you believe the king will select for his armories?”
“I don’t know.”
Begbie touches his lips with two fingers; he taps one of them against his mouth as he watches me. I know he’s trying to figure out the best way to crack me.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Serenity,” he says, “I really don’t, but you have to give me information for this to work.”
Contrary to his words, this man wants to hurt me very, very badly.
We stare each other down. I’m going to be killed either way, and that knowledge settles on my shoulders like a cloak. Whatever else happens, my words won’t get me out of here.
He leans forward in his chair, his hand coming to rest on the table. “What do you know?”
This is one question I can answer.
“That my name is Serenity, and my memory is gone.”
CHAPTER 2
Serenity
LIEUTENANT BEGBIE ENDS the interview shortly after my admission, promising me “advanced interrogation techniques” if I can’t come up with answers soon.
Suffice it to say, the man doesn’t believe me.
After he finishes questioning me, he unlocks my cuffs, and this time I’m wise enough not to attack. The guard with the assault rifle looks ready and willing to use it. If I want to rebel, today won’t be the day.
I make note of the fact that the lieutenant has a gun holstered to his hip, and he likely has another weapon somewhere on his person.
If what I know won’t save me, then my actions must. I’m going to have to hurt people to leave this place.
That should bother me more than it does. I add heartlessness to my growing list of character traits.
Until then, I’ll bide my time and figure out what, exactly, is wrong with my mind. Specifically, why I don’t know who I am.
Once Begbie and the guard leave, I lean against the cement wall of my cell, my legs bent in front of me. I rub my wrists.
I haven’t changed clothes since my capture. I wear black leather boots, fitted pants, and a crimson shirt.
At least, these were the original colors I wore. Blood and dust now cake them. My outfit’s ripped in several locations, and the back of one boot’s burned away. I can’t remember how I got this way, which makes my past all the more intriguing.
I finger the material of my shirt. I have nothing to compare it to, but its softness, weave, and saturated color all scream wealth.
While I’d been unconscious, someone cut away the fabric covering my injured arm and leg. Gauze covers both wounds; these enemy soldiers went to the trouble of patching me up. I’d assume it was a small kindness, but after seeing the way they’ve treated me, they probably just wanted to make sure I live long enough to be of use to them.
Eventually I’ll need to check the wounds and let them breathe. Even if they were tended by combat medics, staunching the blood flow and wrapping a wound up is no permanent remedy.
How do I know any of this?
I’m still absently rubbing the material of my shirt when light glints off my hand. My body stills as I hold it up.
I don’t know which surprises me more: that I’m wearing jewelry, or that my captors haven’t yet confiscated it.
If I’m someone important, they will eventually. Another truth I inexplicably know.
I study the two rings that adorn my hand. One is a band of yellow diamonds. Expensive. The other is a polished piece of lapis lazuli. Tiny flakes of gold shimmer amongst the dark blue of the stone, reminding me of the night sky. This one doesn’t seem so expensive, but meaningful perhaps.
My heart thumps loudly in my chest.
I’m married.
I let that sink in. I don’t think I like that. Even without the aid of memories, there’s something constricting about the prospect.
Still, that means someone’s missing me right now.
Around my rings, the skin is scarred—particularly my knuckles. Apparently the guard wasn’t the first face these fists have dug into. My hands, however, are free of even the hint of wrinkles.
I add up what I know: I’m young, female—I gleaned that much from the mirror—married, dangerous, and valuable to these people’s cause.
It’s an unlikely combination.
Who am I to be so young and so experienced in the darker deeds of men?
I hold my hand up again, letting the rings catch the light.
And what kind of man would marry a woman like me?
TIME TICKS BY slowly in this place. No one’s come for me again, but they will.
I lean my head back against the cool cement wall and close my eyes.